


So Much More Than Metal and Code

by LuckyClo4



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Feels, Homeless John, M/M, Robot John, adding as i go, robot!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 19:53:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4234521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyClo4/pseuds/LuckyClo4
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is an outlaw. Hunted since birth, his only crime is being a robot. Sherlock is an ex-Shock, a group of people who hunted robots. What happens when the two meet?</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Much More Than Metal and Code

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first Sherlock fanfiction, and it's a present for a friend. Sorry to disappoint, this is just an edited chapter. I will start posting regularly, but this edit was made so I don't have to cringe every time I look at the first chapter.
> 
> This will be revamped eventually, it's hurting me to even try to edit it.

_Robots. Innocent, harmless hunks of metal with squeaky joints and lovably naïve personality. Until they weren't anymore._

_Somewhere in the midpoint between code and robot, a scientist messed up, creating something surprisingly... human. When the robot first opened her eyes, she spoke with a compassionate tone, totally unlike the monotonous voice of her siblings. “Daddy? Where are you?” She could reason, make informed decisions, and even laugh. Everyone was amazed. Of course, the manufacturing industry caught up rather quickly, giving the new robot a more human look._

_And then production began to pick up._

_All over the world, people were making these robots with a human demeanor and computer abilities and using a mixture of psychology and coding to condition them into acting how they wanted. Since they weren't human, anything and everything went, from torture to rape to child labor._  
_And when the robots began to rebel, the government sought to control them. They tried coding the rebellion out. They tried torture. They tried threatening. They tried outright destruction. Nothing worked._

_On June 18, 1964, the plug was pulled on robot manufacturing, and a bounty was put on the head of every robot._

_Eventually, the robots disappeared._

  
The alley on fourth street was exactly the same as any other alley. Spooky, inhabited with rats and old cans, dark except for the occasional car speeding past, headlights on. Abandoned.That was the alley that John Watson called home.

He was not supposed to be here. That much was for certain, and for a number of reasons, too. For one, he was expected to be dead.

His gravestone was between his parents’ on the land that he once called home. His death certificate was in his pocket. No matter where you brought your question, the answer was the same: John Watson was officially, no-doubt-about-it-dead.

Of course, that didn't help anything. The group that was hunting him now cared not for documents and records. They were out for blood and oil, and he'd be damned if he was just going to let them take it without a fight.

He closed his eyes. He had been too tired for too long, and his wires were so jacked up that he could hardly move without something going wrong. Hypersensitive pain sensors, hearing that shorted out occasionally, and a limp. Plus, his hands shook. All of these problems stemming from a simple shot in the shoulder. He could remember it like it was yesterday. The boot camp. The screams of the wounded.

“Need a hand?” John Watson was snapped out of his thoughts, and he looked up at the man who had so easily crept up on him.

"No need to look at me so crossly." The man said, extending a hand. Hesitantly, John took it and was pulled to his feet. He was about to thank the kind man when cold steel met his throat.

"Now, don't put up a fuss." The man pushed him up against a wall none too gently and frisked him before tying his hands together. John was frozen in place, so it seemed. The man pushed him forward, onto the sidewalk.

"Walk." John stubbornly refused to move. The man sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t be difficult.”

John kicked at him and tried to run, but he tripped over his own feet, sending him to the sidewalk and knocking him out.

Sherlock Holmes was bored. Wall-shooting, floor-pacing bored. His last case was much too easy. Anyone with eyes could see that it wasn’t a suicide. He sighed and flopped into a chair. A knock on the door made him spring up, still muttering to himself. He opened it with a scowl to see Mycroft.

“Come to bother me about a boring case?” He glanced down at what Mycroft was dragging in one hand. “Not as boring, maybe.” It appeared to be a man, about thirty or so years of age, with blond hair. Mycroft cleared his throat, and Sherlock's eyes snapped back up to his.

“How's the diet coming along?” Sherlock's mouth flicked up into a knowing smile.

“I didn't come to discuss my dietary plans, as much as you'd like to think.”

“Indeed. Leave him in the living room.” Sherlock picked up the violin, making a noise that sounded closer to nails on a chalkboard than an actual instrument. With a sigh, Mycroft closed the door, leaving the two men alone together.

Inside the flat, Sherlock dragged the man onto the couch and began deducing. A military man, judging by his tan. Has an older sister who’s a drunk; the coat is worn out and has old alcohol stains but only smells faintly of beer, and the long hair on the sleeve confirms that he either has a sister or a long haired brother. The coat is embroidered, Clara, and judging by how the coat looks, it’s almost new, and a military man wouldn’t damage a new coat, further proving it was not originally his. So a gift from a relationship, but if Clara would have left his sister she would have kept it, for sentimental reasons. No, his sister left Clara and gave the coat to him.

Sherlock looked closely at the man. Something didn’t quite fit in this equation. He had been homeless for a few years, that much is apparent, but why? He could have taken up residence with his sister unless she had died, but he looked in too good of shape to be mourning. Trying to protect her maybe? But why?

A gleam caught his eye. He turned the man’s head slowly to find the answer to all of his questions. A nameplate. All robots had one, and each serial number meant something. But this was odd. Different. It didn't look like the other robot serial numbers. Maybe it was a tattoo?

Sherlock's face contorted into a snarl as it hit him. The Shocks. The most annoying group of anti-robot social reformists the world had ever seen. They had a habit of interfering with Sherlock's cases. And they all had serial number tattoos. It was a cruel bit of irony if you asked him.

The man on his couch began to stir, eyelids fluttering like butterflies in the rain. Sherlock got to his feet, pulling out his gun almost casually. It was time to have a chat with this man.

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued


End file.
